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reikunrei · 4 months

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Shadows, Saving, and Simulations

A while back, I made a post (that I can no longer find) about some random bits of a couple episodes of Doctor Who that gave me some Stranger Things vibes with the intent of seeing if my inkling was warranted. Well, I finally watched the episodes again.

They are season 4, episodes 8 and 9, "Silence in the Library" and "Forest of the Dead."

The monster of these episodes are called the Vashta Nerada. We never actually see them, but they take the shape of shadows/exist as swarms within the darkness. They were the main reason why I initially thought of these episodes because of their being possible inspiration for the Shadow in Stranger Things, because while the Shadow/Mind Flayer is presented as one (mostly) singular, tangible being, the hive mind aspect of it/the UD is very similar to how the Vashta Nerada operate and communicate amongst each other to hunt.

There are even several characters who become "puppets" of the Vashta Nerada. Though while the don't actually go into the victims, the language is similar in that the Doctor says they become "infected" by the Vashta Nerada. They'll even attach themselves to a victim before consuming them to keep them "fresh" and to infect others. These victims wind up having two shadows: one benign and one infected.

The Vashta Nerada can strip flesh from bone in a fraction of a second, so the victims are dead in an instant and the swarm inhabits the suit they're wearing and manipulates that into moving. It starts off clunky and slow, but as the episode progresses, they get better at moving the suits to keep up with the others.

We even get a fun "strangling the person who's trying to help" moment. Hi, Joyce!

We're also introduced to a concept called "Data Ghosting." The members of the expedition party, the ones in the white suits, are each equipped with a communication device which, upon death of the wearer, hangs on to a copy of their consciousness anywhere from a few seconds to several hours afterward. These "ghosts" can continue to speak to the living until they deteriorate, often repeating a final word or phrase as their consciousness officially leaves.

At one point, the Doctor tries speaking to the Vashta Nerada, encouraging them to use the the lingering "data ghost" of one of the victims to manipulate their speech into telling the Doctor what they want. This occurs later as well when another victim is infected. Though, as the Doctor said earlier, "they're learning."

Anita, a member of the expedition, ultimately finds she has a second shadow, and in an attempt to trick the Vashta Nerada into believing they've already gotten inside her suit, they tint the visor. However, this proves futile, but nobody notices that she's been killed for a good long while, and she even continues talking, keeping pace as they run, and carrying herself like a normal person until the Doctor makes it clear he spotted that she's back down to one shadow.

I had completely forgotten about the "Data Ghosting" aspect of these episodes, so while I went into it thinking "ah, yes, a living shadow that puppets dead people in an attempt to kill others" was a pretty fun little similarity to the Mind Flayer, I didn't expect to then have "the shadow is trying to mimic the infected person in order to cause more damage."

Obviously, this isn't exactly like what's happening with, say, the flayed victims in ST who are still themselves but heightened to a certain degree rather than being wholly replaced (ie. Billy being angrier than usual). However, it specifically makes me think of this theory by @aemiron-main that, for example, "Henry" isn't Henry in TFS, and perhaps certain characters have been replaced with shapeshifters or doppelganger-type monsters. The Vashta Nerada are even feeding off of the remaining "data ghosts" in order to communicate, much like how a doppelganger would have to feed off of/consume their victim in order to pass as that person.

Now, with all that out of the way, let's get to the fun bit: NINA parallels.

These episodes take place on a planet-sized library which was constructed for the consciousness of a little girl to live in for eternity. The little girl, Charlotte, was dying of an incurable disease, so her grandfather created The Library for her to enjoy every book ever written, meanwhile also giving her an imaginary world to exist in as a "real girl," which leads her to believe that The Library is her imagination rather than the reverse reality.

However, as the Doctor, his companion Donna, and the expedition team fall under threat of the Vashta Nerada, Charlotte's psychologist, Dr. Moon, reveals to her the truth.

Yes, he even calls them nightmares!! Just like Henry calls his visions in TFS!!

Throughout the episode, we see Charlotte in her imaginary "real world" interacting with the library.

When the Doctor and Donna first "meet" her, what they actually come across is a hovering, sphere-shaped security camera that shuts off when Charlotte opens her eyes in her "real world." Then, when the Doctor tries to turn the security camera back on using his Sonic Screwdriver (a multi-purpose tool he carries with him), we see Charlotte reacting to the sound it emits/feeling the Doctor forcing the security camera back on, but her father and Dr. Moon don't hear the sound at all.

There are several other instances where Charlotte will hear something that's caused by commotion in the library, but her father in the "real world" can't hear it. At one point, the expedition team are trying to crack into the security protocols for the library in an attempt to find a way out/figure out what's going on, but they hit a wall and trigger an alarm. The alarm manifests as a phone ringing in Charlotte's living room, but when she asks her dad if he's going to pick it up, he says the phone isn't ringing.

Then, in an attempt to break through the security protocols even further, the Doctor winds up transmitting himself onto her TV and they speak briefly to each other. At this point, the Doctor & Co. have yet to know what Charlotte's relation is to the library, but she recognizes him as the man she saw "in my library." Before the Doctor can question her on that, the connection is lost.

Throughout the rest of the episode, we then see Charlotte "watching" what's happening in the library on her TV. She's basically watching the Doctor Who episodes within the Doctor Who episodes, and when she flips through channels, she switches to new scenes/shots. They even have a musical score that is very clearly coming from her TV. Her dad is unaware of this as well, and when she makes comments about the library being "on TV now," he chuckles and reminds her that the library is in her imagination.

Obviously, a lot of this reminded me of El talking to Brenner when she's in NINA in ST4, as well as the several times the grandfather clock chimes in TFS despite its otherwise glaring absence throughout the whole show. There's even that one moment before the attic sequence with Patty where Henry gets interrupted by the clock chime, but Patty doesn't seem to react to it at all, she only reacts to Henry reacting.

Not to mention the Vecna visions in ST4 and seeing/hearing the grandfather clock/other aspects of the vision when no one else can, El's running in and out of the Rainbow Room/shouting eliciting little to no reaction from the other kids, and Henry's weird half-real/half-not visions throughout all of TFS.

Let's talk more about Charlotte's "real world."

At the end of the first episode, Donna, while being transported to the TARDIS to be kept safe, gets mysteriously grabbed "by" the library. While Charlotte is watching The Library on her TV, she flips to a channel that is not in the library. We see Donna pulled out of an ambulance on a gurney and taken inside a care facility, where we then see Dr. Moon enter her room. However, she doesn't know who he is or where she is until he "reminds" her.

Peep the two years...

He gently feeds her information that gets her to believe one "reality" over another. And while it's not exactly the same, it reminded me very much of Brenner urging El to "remember" in order to proceed through NINA, and it reminded me of all the times Henry or other characters pushed the "it's a dream/nightmare" sentiment in order to change the outcome of something.

Throughout the rest of their interactions, Dr. Moon says "and then you remembered" and "and then you forgot" very frequently. His motives may seem wishy-washy at this point, since he was telling Charlotte that the "real world" is just her imagination, but here he is telling Donna that the "real world" is real and her memories of the Doctor are just "dreams." From what I can gather, it's mostly just to keep Charlotte/the simulation stable.

In these moments when Dr. Moon "reminds" Donna of what she remembered/forgot, she often will then behave like Dr. Moon has just arrived, greeting him again and seeming surprised, like she forgot he was there/like they hadn't just had a conversation with each other.

The way time progresses within this world really stuck out to me. It's played off like Donna has memory issues, but in reality, whenever something is suggested to her/she thinks of doing something else/going somewhere, it simply... happens. For example, in that scene with Dr. Moon asking her about her "dreams," when he suggests they go for a walk, they're simply suddenly outside taking a walk. She asks him how they got outside, because, from her point of view, there was just a snap transition from her room to outside. He talks her through how they walked out of the building and she laughs it off like she simply forgot again.

This phenomenon is finally explained to her by another character who was in The Library with her, Miss Evangelista, who's sentient of the fact that this "real world" is all a simulation.

Miss Evangelista was the first victim of the Vashta Nerada. She hides her face in a black veil because she was copied into the simulation when she died, resulting in her getting scrambled physically and mentally. In the library, she was a pretty ditz, but in the simulation, she's a photo-booth-swirl-filter-looking genius.

And like... do I even need to say it?

At this point, I guess I should just out and say what's really going on here. Charlotte, full name Charlotte Abigail Lux, or CAL, is the hard drive for The Library.

Her consciousness was essentially made into the computer that runs the whole planet, and 100 years prior to the Doctor and Donna arriving, the Vashta Nerada hatched, alerting the security system that the library was under attack, and in an attempt to rescue the 4,022 people who were physically in The Library that day, the library tried to transport them all out of harm's way. However, with nowhere to send them, CAL saved all of the people to the hard drive in this imaginary "real world."

They spend a lot of time equating this imagined "real world" to a dream. Alongside Dr. Moon initially telling Charlotte that her visions of The Library are "nightmares," the Doctor, attempting to wake up the computer to save the data core before it self-destructs (Charlotte had a meltdown of sorts once Miss Evangelista made Donna realize that her world, her husband, her children, are all just a figment of her imagination/an idealized world/a dream. While overwhelmed, she deleted her dad and Dr. Moon by pressing buttons on her TV remote, and this resulted in The Library going into self-destruct mode. This was also partially because Dr. Moon is a personification of the computer's "doctor moon," a fake moon placed into The Library to act as a virus checker) equates its state to that of someone who's dreaming, and that's when the "child hooked up to a mainframe" situation is revealed, because she is dreaming.

Which leads me into my next detail of import in these episodes: names and identity.

As we've already explored, Charlotte's true identity/purpose remained a mystery for most of the run time. We're aware that she has some sort of influence on/ownership over The Library, and in that early scene with Dr. Moon we're told that her "imagination"/"nightmares" (read: The Library) are the real world. However, it's not until well into the second episode that we're officially told that Charlotte is CAL, and only once they understand that fact are they able to figure out what to do to save the library and everyone inside of it.

We're also introduced to the (future) recurring character River Song. From the first moment we meet her, we're aware that she knows the Doctor. However, the Doctor makes it clear that he doesn't know her. Ultimately, we learn that this is the first time he's ever met her, and it's the last time she's ever going to see him. Because of this, she has years of experience with him to make her trust him unequivocally, but he is very distrustful of her, seeing as she's a total stranger to him.

However, there is one thing she says to him, something that she whispers in his ear so no one, not even the audience, can hear what she says. And that one whisper has him instantly putting all of his trust in her. And what did she say?

Spoilers: later in the show, River and the Doctor get married. That's why she knows his true name, not just his "Doctor" moniker.

Obviously, all of this name and identity stuff has me staring at the Henry slash Vecna slash One nonsense, the existence of Edward Creel, and the general "which character actually is this" of the whole kit and caboodle.

In a similar vein, we get multiple instances of language like this from River:

And while this is clearly just a "you're not the man I know yet" type of sentiment, which is something she specifies, there was no way I could ignore the implications of that kind of dialogue being put into ST. Especially in regard to this post made by James @henrysglock and the general idea that the same person can exist simultaneously/interact with themselves/be both themselves and "someone else." This also happens a lot in DW, and different iterations of the Doctor will meet each other occasionally, and each Doctor is different enough from the other + any later regeneration's additional life experience will allow them to help in different ways.

Just something about the "future you" being the "real you" because that's the "most accurate" you, and all the "past" yous are half-baked, incomplete, and not quite you just yet.

Actually, before I continue, in a similar vein to James's post I linked above, I should explain that we even get a moment of the future Doctor helping the past (present) Doctor within these two episodes.

In order to save all of the people in the hard drive, they need to "restore" them. However, CAL, overwhelmed, doesn't have enough memory in order for it to work smoothly. The Doctor suggests he hook himself up to the mainframe in order to assist, but River offers herself up instead, saying that it'll kill him if he does it and she can't let that happen. Ultimately, she knocks him out, handcuffs him away from her, and takes his place, killing herself in order to restore all of the people in the hard drive.

Earlier in the episodes, we learn that River also has a Sonic Screwdriver, that fancy multi-tool I mentioned a while back. However, that's not something the Doctor just gives away to people. Just before he and Donna are to leave the library, he sets the screwdriver atop her diary, which he was planning to leave in the library along with all of the other books. But then... it clicks.

Why would he give her his Sonic Screwdriver? Why would he do that, knowing he (his future self) would never see her again after this?

He cracks the device open only to see a piece of hardware exactly like the communication device that enabled the "data ghosts" from earlier. He's able to rush back to the hard drive, Sonic in hand (he does have to go fast, she's dwindling), and deposits her into the mainframe for her to exist in the imagined reality of Charlotte with her friends who had been killed by the Vashta Nerada.

His future self, knowing she was going to die on this trip to The Library, planned ahead, knowing his past self would be smart enough to figure it out and save her.

Anyway, where was I? Cripes, this post is all over the place!!

Stranger Things, at the present moment, is a bit of a mess in terms of identity and who's-who. We're told one thing, but when you peel back the layers, you find about a dozen other deviating routes that point in an entirely different direction. As I mentioned earlier, we even get extra characters like Edward Creel, who add another entirely new series of layers to help further muddy the waters.

Blame is something central to the story of Stranger Things. Specifically, where it is wrongly placed.

It was already apparent to me (as to most people) that one of the keys to "beating Vecna" in the end will have to be figuring out who he really is. Given that they think they know his identity, and yet they still managed to not beat him, is clear evidence that they don't have the full picture yet. And, much like how the Doctor wasn't able to figure out how to save The Library until he knew who and what CAL was, our gaggle of teenagers and errant adults won't be able to save Vecna until they know who and what he is.

However, my big takeaway after watching these Doctor Who episodes was... is anything in NINA even real at all?

I personally think that it has to come from some kind of truth, and, at least in the case of El in NINA, I think some of those moments really are her memories. With TFS, I'm a little more willing to look at it and go "yeah all of this is entirely a simulation." Given how many facts are misaligned with on-film canon, the insistent way we're told "Henry" is Henry by Henry (and other characters).

And the number of times Henry says, "This isn't real." Sure, those were in moments of distress when he was experiencing effects of the Shadow, but it still makes me go... okay, "Henry," if that even is your real name... how much of this isn't real?

Donna, once faced with the reality of her world being a simulation/dream, finds herself hard-pressed to keep up the image of it. She starts becoming more aware of the weird way in which time passes, she realizes that every other child in the world is an exact copy of her own, and she finds it difficult to reassure her children of their existence when they confess that they feel like they're not real sometimes. And, after they tell her this, they vanish into thin air.

This, obviously, is where things diverge in terms of how this applies to ST. Obviously, the point of NINA was for El to be aware of the fact that they're memories and to collect them again in order to get her powers back/find the source of her strength. But that leads me again into: if she doesn't remember them, how does she know that they're her own? This has been talked about extensively by folks like Em and James, so I won't touch on it more than that, but I think it's a likely possibility that has to be considered going into ST5.

This is a bit easier to apply to "Henry" in TFS. While I agree that some of it has to be taken from reality in order to construct the world he's in, as I said prior, the inconsistencies and timelines not matching up (again, spoken about a lot by James and Em, especially stuff like the newspaper dates being wrong) makes it stink of something especially wrong.

In these Doctor Who episodes, all of the people that exist in that world are, in fact, also real people! I think the only exception are the children, as they were fully fabricated by Donna's "settle down and start a family" dream. At the end of the second episode, she even goes searching through library records to see if the man she "married" was one of the 4,022 people who'd been saved.

However, in the end, he was real. We see him trying to call out to her as she walks away with the Doctor, but he gets teleported out of the library before he can get her attention.

Not only did this remind me of idea that Patty might not be real, but it sort of put me further in the camp of "Patty in TFS isn't real, but Patty is a real person." Like, I genuinely don't think that she's a fully fabricated being, but rather she's taken from some other reality and molded to fit the current situation.

Which also reminds me of, in these Doctor Who episodes, there are statues throughout The Library which offer information to guests, and they have real human faces on them. Donna talks to one early on in the first episode and it gives some spiel about how it "chose" a face she would "like" from their data bank. The Doctor says it's "like donating an organ." This idea has been talked about irt Patty in TFS being so similar to Henry in terms of likes and desires (they're both comic/superhero nerds and they both want to get away from their abusive households) (I know either Em or James have posted about that but I cannot for the life of me find the posts lol). Not to mention that Patty winds up filling a sort of maternal role for Henry, who is without a proper maternal figure in his life, which Em talks about in posts like this one irt Patty also looking for a paternal figure in her life/rebelling against the one she has.

So, they're both looking for something specific of these relationships, and, at least from Henry's side, he gets given someone who shares his interests and experiences and is willing to give him love and affection when the "proper" person isn't willing to (even if it does go awry in the end, but, y'know).

I got a bit sidetracked there, but looping back to what I said just a little ways above about the purpose of El's NINA simulation being to be aware of the fact that they're memories and try to follow them "the right way"... it's, again, interesting to me that the only time we see "Henry" insisting something isn't real is when he's in a "bad vision," and it makes me wonder what would have happened if he'd been able to question reality outside of that as well. Other characters tell him it's a dream/nightmare/not real (whether that's actually Patty or a friend in disguise, like James suggests in one of the posts of his I linked earlier, is to be confirmed) and that helps to snap him out of it/ground himself... but what if we got more of that? Would all of it fall apart? Much like how, once Charlotte became fully aware of what was going on and the "reality" was questioned, she sent the library into self-destruct?

And looping back again to the "Patty isn't real" stuff and Em's doppelganger theory, if Henry was allowed to question himself, would we potentially learn that "Henry" really isn't Henry? Like Donna said, he "could have had a different name out [there]."

Okay I... think I need to stop myself from going any further, so here's some closing thoughts!!

In short, none of these ideas are new. James and Em have spoken extensively about NINA/TFS being fake, or interspersed with lies at the very least; they've spoken about there being missing information/scenes during/prior to the 1979 HNL massacre; and aaaall that other stuff I already linked. Stav @heroesbyler was also the first to talk about Brenner's Doctor/Time Lord coding, which is something I also talk more about in this post.

Ultimately, the fact that there were so many things that jumped out at me in these DW episodes that aligned with ideas presented not only in these theories about ST, but within ST itself, makes me think that those theories really aren't far off the mark.

And while none of this gave me any answers, it reinforced a lot of questions (and added some new ones) that make me eager to see how everything culminates in this upcoming final season.

What's real and what isn't? Who's real and who isn't? Which are memories and which are fabrications? Whose memories/dreams belong to themselves and which ones belong to someone else? Are they twisted/swapped to get a specific outcome someone else wants? Is anything idealized to make it more alluring? Who can we actually trust throughout this whole damn series?

#i say things #stranger things #st the first shadow #st dw #another mess of a post but let's gooooooooo none of this makes seeeeeense

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kadavernagh · 4 days

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TIMING: Current, after part 1. LOCATION: Banshee court PARTIES: Siobhan, Regan, Wynne, Anita, and many more! SUMMARY: With Siobhan's future decided, the play moves onto its second act, where Regan's sentence is waiting in the wings.

Siobhan got what she had come here for, and Regan hoped it tasted so sickly sweet in the other banshee’s mouth that it rotted her teeth. She did not care, though (hoping Siobhan acquired cavities didn’t mean she had to care). Also, Regan hoped Siobhan lost her balance from being so high up and tumbled off the stage (she also didn’t need to care to hope for that). And, while they were at it, she hoped Siobhan was so enamored with this outcome she choked on it. (Regan still didn’t care.) The umbrella of things she allowed herself to hope for was still large enough to cover those three items.

Her not-caring-about-Siobhan tendencies were quickly overshadowed because there was someone involved in this who she did care about. Wynne seemed okay for now, because they had taken a meaningless guess and Eithne saw some use for Siobhan (enough to keep her around), and the wheel did not land on human sacrifice… but Wynne’s work was not done. Wynne, who held even less of a clue about these proceedings than Regan did. Wynne, who was gifted the “honor” of feeling responsible for whatever happened here (Regan was starting to realize that few honors banshees gave out were actually honors; Wynne was no stranger to honors of this kind, either). And there was more. Did Wynne realize that yet? Or were they only swimming in their relief of Siobhan’s outcome? They were a strong swimmer, but not like this.

This was the crowd’s favorite context to see a human in: clinging to hope for the impossible. Regan knew in her own tibias and fibulas that the impossible, right now, was her leaving this place any time soon. Her friends could give all of the reminders they wished, Jade could write letters until her hands grew callouses; here, sparks were extinguished unless they were birthing a pyre, and in this place of death, hope and want became ash long before they could come alight and spread.

———

Few cared about Siobhan. Banshees lived long lives and had long memories, but even so, the exile was a nobody. She was known more for being gone than being here, with only a few among their community calling for more harshness. Most accepted the tibia determination. Banshees, Eithne found, nearly always accepted what they were told so long as it was left up to a force much larger than them, or appeared to be. Eithne was honored to be a voice for such a force, for humans could not be expected to understand on their own.

She was less willing to leave Regan Kavanagh’s future up to outside determination as she had been Siobhan’s. The doctor was useful. She was undisciplined and wild in the way the odd young banshee could be, and what she had done to her grandmother pressed against the boundaries for what was forgivable… but she was useful, and what greater signal could there be to future generations, that even the worst, most unrestrained banshees among them could be tamed by Fate, if given enough time and a short enough leash?

“We have all had Cliodhna’s cream of bone soup,” Eithne began, reminding everyone of the respected banshee, who nobody really liked, but who everyone had been nourished by at some point (whether in soup or firm reminders to be better). “We all know her. Only the dead can be without flaw, but Cliodhna is among the most rank, the most decomposed among us. Worms are pleased by her skin.” Eithne’s voice had a sorrowful ring now. “Her granddaughter,” she gestured toward the poor welp of a banshee, “failed to take advantage of having such an exceptional teacher. Like a leanbh, she tantrumed against her grandmother’s final, charitable attempt to free her of such pervasive flaws. In response to such a grand kindness, she pushed her grandmother into Farraige na Buanachta, where she remains stuck, and will need our care for years to come. If her grandmother could not accomplish repairing her, what chance might we have?”

Eithne’s calculated eyes appeared almost soft, sympathetic now as she ensured the crowd followed her, that the determination to come would not be a surprise. “She does not look it… not completely, at least, but she’s only a child. She will never rise above anyone standing here. She is stunted. There is nothing to be done once the bones finish growing. I ask our judge to consider this and take pity. If not for her, then on us, for the band-aid dispenser becomes clogged at least once a week, and fixing it is more difficult than listening to the leanbh’s foolishness for the five minutes it takes her to mend us, and ready us for more shows of our commitment.”

———

Only a child. Max wondered, with a bitter churning in her gut, if she or Tina would have been offered the same consideration. Max and Tina had done everything right, had they not? They were the banshees they were meant to be. Had they done what Regan had, Max doubted exceptions would have been made for them. When you were perfect, you were punished for being anything less. But when you were a mistake to begin with? Achieving even the smallest victory made everyone cheer you on. Max grit her teeth, glaring daggers into the back of Regan’s skull. She hoped the silly, wannabe-human could feel them there. She hoped they ached.

But… glaring wasn’t quite enough, was it? Max had never been the subtle sort, never been one to settle for metaphors when something physical could be offered in their place. She reached beneath her seat until her hands grasped what she was looking for — the plastic knives complementary to trial guests. Max hadn’t had a great deal of practice throwing blades so light and inefficient, but she’d get that practice now. She offered one to Tina before beginning to lob knife after knife at Regan’s head as the trial continued.

———

Clare had to admit that the leanbh was of more use than the wingless wonder had ever been, but that didn’t warrant forgiveness as far as she was concerned. She stood with her arms crossed against her chest, waiting to hear what could possibly justify allowing this disgrace to stay. Hadn’t Fate been cruel enough today already? Couldn’t they just use their words to bind a local doctor to replace her? They would likely cause less destruction than the two disgraces that were on trial that day.

———

Regan hadn’t wanted to shove her grandmother in a tar pit she’d never be able to climb out of. She hadn’t wanted her grandmother to suffer, to die before the natural course of her life came to its conclusion. But she had wanted Elias to live. (There. Wanted. She would think the dreaded word.) And in that moment, Regan had made a choice. She did not regret it. Even if it had been someone else in Elias’s place, would she have done it? Would she have done it if it meant taking that golden blade and running it over her grandmother’s throat herself? Was there a certain amount of directness that crossed the line of doing harm? (And hadn’t doctors philosophized about this for as long as the Trolley Problem existed?) These questions helped no one but thumped in her brain since it happened anyway.

She had come here for the greater good, because primum non nocere applied to everyone but herself. Do no harm unless it’s to yourself, for the sake of everyone else. What’s one person compared to– now she was thinking about the Trolley Problem again. Jade was far less abstract, and she had written I want you to stop thinking about everyone else but yourself. You are a person too. What would she think about what Regan had done, potentially dooming her future? The consensus here was obvious.

The first knife hit her upper arm. The one already bearing a stab wound, bandage covered in days-old blood. Regan winced because she didn’t expect it, but there was little pain. The knife bounced off of her and landed on her podium. She picked it up and held it in front of her face, though it didn’t take as long to examine as a blade pulled from one of her decedents. Plastic. It was plastic. She looked over the audience (which seemed to be a mistake every time she did it) and understood. Max and Tina (fearg an chinniúint, it was them) were right near the front, sharing a pile of the knives between them, and looking both giddy and righteous as they launched them like darts. Of course. Saol Eile’s fine china consisted of plastic and paper plates. And the paper plates came with sad, bendy plastic knives (and low-quality napkins). It was natural that the banshees needed to find a use for the knives. This was it. Regan wasn’t ready for the fusillade, but the only thing it cut her with was humiliation (it was Oklahoma again). At least she could appreciate that Siobhan was being pelted too, however free she was now (no, Regan reminded herself, after today).

A thought, probably out of place, insisted on forming. Why hadn’t she seen Max and Tina until now? She was unfortunate enough to have spent time around them in the past. She knew what they were like. They should have been tormenting her over the last few weeks, right? But they didn’t. Regan didn’t know what that meant, but it added another layer of iron to the inside of her belly. She had a feeling she would have plenty of time to figure that out.

Regan bore her eyes into Eithne as another knife hit her on the nose, the request she was making was obvious, though she only half-expected Eithne to listen. Spin the wheel. And sympathies to Wynne, who would yet again be burdened with responsibility for any impending tragedy.

———

Wynne listened with both a sharp awareness and growing exhaustion as the banshee spoke about Regan’s grandmother. They hated Regan’s grandmother. They thought she should die. She was like Padrig, if not worse — she’d hurt Elias, taken a knife to him over and over again. She’d made Regan as conflicted and confused as she was. She was evil, like Van and them had already suspected. And so when the banshee asked the judge – which they realized was them – for pity they were not sure if that was what they held for Regan. In a way, certainly. They felt bad for her. They felt bad about the knives being pelted at her. They felt bad about the fact that it had come to this. That if Elias and they hadn’t come, maybe she wouldn’t have shoved her grandma in the tar, and that maybe it would be better for her then. Still bad, but better. They felt so bad that they thought the world should stop spinning for a moment so everyone could assess why things had gotten to this point.

But would they grant pity as a judge? Maybe it wasn’t the right word. They’d prefer to give her grace and forgiveness. To acquit her of all charges like they had with Siobhan — but they weren’t sure if that option would be there once more.

———

Max and Tina were petulant, though in a way that amused Eithne so she said nothing about the constant assailant of plastic knives hitting the stage. When she stepped on one of them it was like stepping on a crunchy, dying leaf and she decided it was a nice addition to the stage. She twisted her shoe on it and gave the human a look. “It is time to spin again.”

———

Wynne raised their arm and pulled at the wheel again, a motion that they were starting to gain a level of muscle memory for at this point. The sound of it clicking and clacking, too, was getting ingrained in their mind. They watched the words flash by, saw that one of the pie-wedges was dedicated to their role – that of judge – but it went by too fast for them to worry about it. It was about the potential sacrifice they worried, just as they worried about Elias, about Regan, about Nora, about Metzli.

Wynne watched it click by and wished they could fast forward. They wanted to give someone else control of their body, to make a puppet master move their arm up and down to swing at the wheel. To have that same master make their voice speak the English words on the wheel and most of all, to have that puppet master keep them upright. Would it make much of a difference, anyway? They were nothing more than a doll on this stage, a piece of a production they did not understand. They were not used to this role, but they knew that there was something similar between this one and the one they had played at home. They were a part of a bigger whole, a cog in a machine — but at least they had understood the machine. At least at home, they had understood punishment and consequence.

The wheel slowed eventually, landing on determination once more. So maybe some wishes did come true — maybe this time they wouldn’t have to keep pulling at the wheel in order to reach a conclusion. Maybe now they could try to do right by Regan. To take pity on her as a judge, to have mercy on her. They wished they could speak, that they were able to form the words that spoke on Regan’s behalf — some kind of convincing statement that backed her up. That condemned Cliodhna for having stabbed Elias, that explained that sometimes these kinds of things happened or had to be done. That Regan would have to live with the weight of this and that would be punishment enough. That it had been self defense, which was something they’d heard about in a movie. But they didn’t say anything.

———

Regan had counted. She had plenty of time while Siobhan pretended to be a good banshee, giving an 8 out of 8 performance on the Bloodworth Scale, lying that she was worthy of the forgiveness she received. So Regan had counted. There were 40 wedges on the wheel. About three quarters of them were outcomes that were nothing but fanciful delays or had the potential to harm – even kill – someone. Of the remaining, 9 of them would move the trial along, and give her a chance to speak up for herself (could she?). Or, like Anita had, someone might even be able to stretch things in her favor, appealing for a lighter sentence. Preferably someone who did not look like a child, because Regan had that covered.

Then there was that last wedge, which had melded with all of the other wedges as the wheel blurred around and around, that would put an end to all of this in one way or another. The pegs on the wheel clacked. Over “gather in the shape of a skull” and then again over “write an obituary for the judge”. Momentum hit a wall. There was no fake out. The wheel stopped perfectly on the one wedge Regan had counted last, the one that was not as terrible as human sacrifice, but the one that, in a way, rang with more finality: determination.

———

The pubic defender continued to do nothing to help its client, other than be a bone that existed nearby. (Which its client did think was nice.)

———

Eithne was a little disappointed to see the wheel end on determination already. There was a reason there were so many wedges on the wheel, after all — it was to make sure every detail was gone over and to make sure everyone was continually engaged with the trial. It seemed Regan Kavanagh’s case would be over quite fast, though, which was regretful. It would be right to have her stand there for a long while as the banshees engaged in various activities and she was tried and tested through various means.

But she did not express her regret, in stead clapped her hands together. The human had not made their judgment yet. Had they already forgotten how the ruling was done? She cleared her throat and reminded them of the two options: “Tibia or fibula?”

———

Regan was ready, wasn’t she? What more could she do? How much longer could she think around in circles? Someone speaking on her character wouldn’t help. Especially after spotting Max and Tina, she was certain one of them would have stepped into the role, volunteering as if it were a great duty.

As another plastic knife wapped against Regan’s cheek, leaving a light scrape (and Max’s grin being unmissable), she had to remind herself to stay focused and unbothered. If she invited emotion – now more than ever – things would not be in her favor. Her training hadn’t exactly taken, but this place had at least ironed out the more mild wrinkles. They kept calling her a child, a leanbh, but Regan saw what many others here did not – that whatever was decided here today, it was not up to Fate. Even if Fate did exist, which was something Regan had never been able to be fully convinced of, it would be filtered through Eithne. And Eithne had her own agenda, one that best served the community, but perhaps not one Wynne would speak.

Regan stared at the banshee who served as a pillar to their aos si, who did not think she was a person. Then the flock of other banshees, who thought the same, because a leanbh was not a person, only a half-forged dagger, as dull and useless as these plastic knives. She knew what this show was. And it was a show, wasn’t it? Everything here was, whether it was a show to each other or to Fate. As long as these banshees disliked her, and were reminded of that, as long as they saw her as a witless liability and nothing but a band-aid dispenser that had not yet rusted, it didn’t matter how little they liked Cliodhna– there was nothing Regan could do to avoid punishment.

What could they do to her? An exile would come as a relief. For most banshees it would be the greatest loss they could conceive of, but they had already inflicted that on Regan. Physical injury? Little would be new. Her body was a collection of them right now. A daily visit to her grandmother? Fine. Eventually, Regan would stand taller than her (even if only in the most literal of ways as she sank). Clidohna would scream steam.

So Regan stood, defiant against the plastic knives and fury from those who she had tended to at one point or another, pretending that her heart was beating like a banshee’s and not a human’s. She was ready for whatever came.

Wynne looked far less steady. But they knew what worked last time. Regan was certain the choice between tibia and fibula had nothing to do with what her outcome would be. She looked at her friend, trying to convey that she would not blame them, no matter what words came from Eithne’s mouth. She was not sure Wynne saw the disconnect, how little their spinning of Ciorcal na Cinniúint mattered.

———

The banshee reminded them of the two options and Wynne nodded in understanding. “I’m considering,” they answered quietly, just for her to hear. They had picked tibia before. The stronger bone. The option that had seen Siobhan released of all stipulations. They didn’t understand what was happening around them, but since they had entered the world outside of their former commune they had grown to understand that precedence was a good way to learn how something worked. Tibia had seen Siobhan released. If this was based in logic, it should release Regan too.

They were gathering up the courage to speak and determine Regan’s fate but it seemed it didn’t matter how hard they worked — someone spoke before they could call out their judgment.

———

“She killed my son.”

———

Regan was, actually, not ready for whatever came. She froze, overtaken by a cold sweat, as her eyes scanned the audience for the source of the voice and locked with Niamh’s. Declan’s mother. Even with dozens of banshees looking at Niamh, she kept her eyes drilling into Regan’s and Regan’s alone. Silence filled the space. No one dared even open their mouth. It was a rare sight for a group of banshees.

And now Regan was afraid, her legs tangling, her hands shaky and bracing against the stand. Regan hadn’t killed Declan, not really, but it might as well have been true – it was not the loss of Declan’s life that everyone would boil over, but that a banshee did not bloom from his spilled blood.

“You may speak,” Eithne said solemnly to Naimh. Regan saw a hint of well-concealed worry cross Eithne’s cold skin. This was not in the script, hadn’t been accounted for. Regan still didn’t know the script, but this surely was not there.

———

Niamh continued, sorrow pulling at her vocal cords. “My son, my baby boy with the sweet blood, is dead because of a lie.” She was allowed to have grief weigh in her voice, for banshees understood that grief was not below them, though little would be afforded to humans. At the word lie, it was as if an itch fell over the audience. Of course this untrained banshee from some human elsewhere was a liar, too. “She brought the humans with her. We honored Hamstring with our finest, least anemic boy, and she is no more a banshee than she was before she arrived here. She is human.” Niamh pointed at Regan, who shrank back as much as she could; the podium did actually come close to being able to obstruct her whole body. “Her. She’s the one who made us believe Hamstring was one of us. She gave my son a wasted death. He would have given a proper banshee the most beautiful first scream.”

———

Regan was reminded, as the stab wound on her arm flushed years of poison through her veins (how many of your humans will replace these animals you refuse to touch?; such little effort for such strong convictions; one failure begs for more, and yours will fill a cemetery), and her lungs swelled with grief, and her heart tried to race thousands of miles and over oceans to the one person whose touch could stop her trembling… that she was not a particularly good banshee.

If she were a good banshee, she never would have left Saol Eile to begin with. Actually, if she were a good banshee, the training would have paid off within only a few years, and she would have been allowed to leave Saol Eile but would choose not to. If she had been a good banshee, there wouldn’t be anyone who had been lured here under the impression they could help her. She wouldn’t have lied to her grandmother about one of those people being a duine caillte, which cascaded into the death of a young man – a child – who had done nothing wrong other than having the misfortune of being born here. If she were a good banshee, she definitely would not have pushed her grandmother into a tar pit to save a human. Or for any reason. Banshees did not push each other into the tar pit (though the sheer death of that place was a temptation for some).

Regan hadn’t slit Declan’s throat, or stabbed him through the heart, or however his family had decided to dispatch him to bestow the world’s worst honor on some innocent child. But, how could anyone not see it as her fault? She was a lousy banshee. She was not even a banshee at all. They could point a righteous finger at her and it would mostly be true. And she allowed herself to be overgrown with such human guilt – so how could she not see it as her fault, too? She had tried to pull the brakes before Declan’s death but the trolley did not change course.

Regan knew how this ended, now. This would not be a traditional exile. They would keep her here, because that was what Regan didn’t want (and how dare she want to begin with?), and it was to their benefit. Even Niamh’s fury would be smoothed over, her scream hushed, when the woman realized this was the equivalent of exile to Regan.

Grief surged through her. It seemed like a year ago when she had asked Wynne for a few days to think about a Worm Remembrance Day escape plan. She needed to figure out how to get all of them out, and then decide if she had enough of what everyone saw in her to leave with them. But then it all blew up in her face. Her grandmother saw her with Elias, the ham child didn’t become a banshee when Declan died in front of her, and here was Wynne, now forced to sentence the friend they’d crossed an ocean for.

Regan braced herself to hear it, this cause of death marking the end of the life she wanted for herself. She knew their cruelty. It was expected now. She could practically see the words forming on Eithne’s lips. Could Wynne? Would they think this, in whatever permutation it took, was all their fault? Regan tried to catch their eyes to say she knew, she knew it and it was okay (it wasn’t). It was okay (it wasn’t) because Elias was alive, and even if she never set foot outside Saol Eile again, she would get the others out. Right here, right now, she muttered a promise under her breath, the same she whispered next to Elias’s unconscious body: I promise I will get you out of here alive.

They had been so close. (It wasn’t okay.)

———

It couldn’t be true, could it? Metzli couldn’t imagine Regan pushing anyone, let alone sending them into a pit of tar. And now they were saying she killed a boy in cold blood? It seemed impossible to believe, but then again, impossible situations beget impossible reactions. Blood on Regan’s hands was far more probable than ever, and Metzli wished for nothing but to take that from her. The trial Siobhan and Regan were being forced to sit through was nothing short of torture. Metzli couldn’t help but wonder how fast they could run.

———

Siobhan’s trial had seemed like a bit of a show. Fate and bones left to determine if she could return home to the community she had come from. Anita knew it had been important to her but it had almost felt like going through some sort of procedural motions opposed to a real trial. Regan’s was different. Anita thought she had known her fairly well. The two had bonded over maggot masses. But it seemed they both had a more intimate connection to death than Anita had realized. She wondered if the deaths alleged in this trial had been intentional. She wondered just how much they had in common.

———

So much seemed to have happened in their absence. Max had known Declan, though only in passing. She’d had little interest in befriending human boys, little need for it after her first scream was finished. Still, a wasted death was a tragic thing, and Regan bringing one about was treacherous. Max aimed another plastic knife, throwing it with all her strength at the back of Regan’s head. She threw one at the human judge for good measure, too, and one at Siobhan.

———

Mealla watched the human judge spin the wheel. She was excited to see blood squirt from their thighs soon, but for now she was focused on the proceedings. This, too, was interesting. She handed her thermos of tea to her sister as she continued to watch, enthralled.

———

The leanbh had also wasted a sacrifice? For a human? Clare was starting to think that maybe she was more of a disaster than the wingless wonder. She watched the shriveling human “judge,” eyes boring into them as if she could will Fate to dole out proper punishment.

———

Nora listened as Niamh blamed Regan for Declan’s death. As if the image of Niamh’s knife slashing into Declan’s throat hadn’t been the only thing she could see when she closed her eyes. The fire in her sparked, like the pyre she had just been at. She roared her anger in the form of the bear, causing banshees to step away from her. But the shadow held her in place, there was nothing she could do to save Regan. Fate had taught her that.

———

Honestly, Siobhan was a little bored; it was hard to pay attention when things weren’t about her. Maybe her mother had been right: banshee court was childish drivel. Of course, now that she had what she wanted, what did she have to pay attention for? She’d offered Regan her (mental) apologies and figured it was good enough. Would it be rude to ask to leave now? What was being said? Something about Regan being a child? Yes, of course, leave it to some out-of-touch hag banshee—that’s what Eithne was, right?—to reduce Regan’s identity first to being a child and then to being only slightly better than the band-aid dispenser for double the annoyance. Then Siobhan considered that that was exactly how she thought of Regan. Then there were the knives and it was always hard to think about anything when there were the knives. Siobhan whipped around to see who threw them but she didn’t recognize the faces; she was looking into a sea of strangers. (Shouldn’t this have been home?) Then, there was the rest of it.

Siobhan took some pleasure in knowing Regan was a shittier banshee than her: Siobhan’s greatest crime, in her biased opinion, was caring for the only family member that had loved her (sure some banshees die but one can’t make an articulated skeleton without cracking a few bones—actually, one should make an articulated skeleton without cracking any bones). Regan’s crime involved pushing a grandmother, deception and…ham? On a string? Siobhan finally turned to Regan. No one was asking her why. That was the only question that burned in Siobhan’s head: why, why, why. Why care? Why try? Why bother running away? Why come back? Why were they standing here?

And why did the children have plastic knives?

———

They had known Declan was dead. Banshees had brought his body to the clinic a day or two or three (they didn’t know, any more — didn’t know how long it had been since they’d found Elias, since they’d come here, since they’d been beckoned on this stage) ago and not paid them or Elias any mind. Wynne had known Declan had died, they assumed it had something to do with Nora’s disappearance and the subsequent rumors of her arrest. Wynne had known, because they’d shared a building with his body.

But Wynne hadn’t been prepared to see his mother. To think of that body, that boy that Nora had felt something for as a son. They hadn’t been prepared for that mother to say it was Regan who had killed him. And though more context was added (context that made no sense — because what did Declan dying have to do with Nora not being a banshee) and it was the lie that the mother considered the murder weapon against her son rather than an actual knife in Regan’s hand, their stomach sank. The bones in their legs, their tibia, fibula and femur, had been replaced by jelly.

A boy was dead, a son was dead, and his mother was petitioning for him. Had their own mother done this for Iwan? Iwan, who had always been favored by her, who had ended up dead on the altar in the end? They felt themself grow unsteady as their worlds blurred, as Moosehead lake and Saol Eile overlapped and meshed together, as they swore they saw paintings of Corwyn Prothero in the corners of the building, the face of Beca and Eirwen and their mother among the crowds. There even was a shadow of the barn here. The wheel they had spun again and again read human sacrifice and though there was no altar, there were enough eyes watching for it to be respectable. Regan was catching their eye and they thought of the vole she’d found at the estate, in another life. If only there was a demon to slay here, rather than hundreds of women who would like to see them bled out, who were eyeing Regan with disdain. If only it were vampires that could be battled with Metzli’s brute force, Zack’s fire and Emilio’s stakes.

If only — if only they hadn’t come. If only Nora hadn’t gone. If only they’d dragged her away a week ago, the first time they’d come across her in this dizzying place. If only they had taken Iwan with them when they’d ran. If only they’d died on that altar. If only love had been enough. Enough to keep Regan in Wicked’s Rest, enough to make their parents run away the moment they’d been told their child was to die, enough to make Nora see reason through the blossoms of Declan’s presence.

They wanted to slump down and pull their knees to their chin again, but their purpose remained. Tibia or fibula. Guilty, not guilty. Free, trapped. Regan was looking at them and they were blinking back, not sure what their gaze meant any more. If only it was enough.

———

Eithne stood tall. She knew how to keep herself standing tall even as mothers spoke of their sons being killed based on a lie. She knew how to stand tall when her sisters brandished cold iron against her because she knew it would be her turn soon. She knew how to stand tall, because Fate required it, demanded it, because she was leading a trial that she would see to fulfillment.

Part of her wanted to throttle Niamh. A larger part of her wanted to throttle Regan, though that part had been present throughout. These were parts of her she did not give into, however. She blew them away with a hush of mental air and simply considered this new information as she waited for the human to make their decision.

The human was taking a very long time. The human was not standing tall – though for that they could not be blamed, as humans were simply not built for such things – and Eithne glowered at them. “Judge, we still require your judgment. By now you should be done processing the added accusations.” The wheel hadn’t landed on ‘witness statement’, which was something she’d have to talk to Niamh about. The wheel had to be respected, after all — it too was an instrument of Fate. “Tibia or fibula?”

———

If they were to use precedence and logic to inform their decision there was only one option. To gamble it on something else, something less meaningful, would be irresponsible. Wynne opened their mouth and spoke their judgment — but only a croak came out. A knife hit their face and they flinched, though no blood was drawn. It was only plastic.

They cleared their throat. “Tibia.”

———

“Tibia.” Eithne lowered her head in respect for a moment, acknowledging the decision that meant nothing. The banshees gasped. Regan looked like she had been struck by lightning, which would have been a shame, because that type of suffering was too fast for what she deserved. She had made a mess of so much. Not only Worm Remembrance Day and Cliodhna’s proximity to her pots and pans to make them cream of bone soup — but now this too. They had all screamed for Declan, had fated his death and believed it would be purposeful, that another banshee would be activated and now this too, was a lie. Other banshees had been excommunicated for lesser, but that was not an option. The band aid dispenser was looking worse every year. They needed their doctor. Whatever was decided had to please the crowd of angry women in front of her, but they could not exchange two eyes for one and cull Regan’s life. She stood tall. She was good at standing tall.

“It has been decided. The leanbh cannot be separated from her grandmother. Cliodhna will not be robbed of seeing what becomes of her granddaughter. Regan will either wilt or surpass the odds Fate has given her. She will have one hundred years to attempt to break herself, because she will be broken, either into one of us, or something no one in the world, let alone we, have a need for.” To codify the decision, she stated it plainly. “The leanbh will not set foot out of Saol Eile for one hundred years. If she tries, we will cut off her feet for Lá Caillte Géag. Tibia.”

Eithne looked squarely at Saol Eile’s shame that was shaped like a banshee, so far pleased with what she saw.

“That is for Cliodhna Caomhánach. May she rest in tar. We will keep her comfortable until the end.”

Niamh looked indignant. Eithne nodded to her, communicating that she would not go ignored.

“That is not all. For the lies, the humans, and the waste of a sacrifice, the leanbh’s wings will be removed.” Eithne looked to Siobhan. She addressed the exile now. “You know about that. You will do it.”

———

A century here was no surprise. Regan expected it, expected longer. This was a light sentence. None of that made hearing it any easier. Her life dissolved in front of her, and just as she had been starting to discover how many ways it could be enriched, made meaningful. Regan left Wicked’s Rest assuming she would never see her family or Jade again, but even with those knives already lodged in her chest, hearing it said so plainly twisted them, forcing her skin and muscle to shed new blood. Her shirt could not fit another stain. And everyone – especially her grandmother – knew that her body would not be able to shape itself around these knives. They would only continue to draw blood. Regan couldn’t look at Wynne, as much as her eyes naturally wanted to seek them out (this would be the last time she’d see them too, wouldn’t it)– she wouldn’t allow them to feel more blame, more guilt.

But this was done. She now knew what her future would look like (and what it wouldn’t look like, what it would never–). The trial was over. Her friends could go home, she would make sure of it, and she could try to force this place to become that for her. She could try not to think about everyone she loved dying while she was stuck here in stasis, and that she would not even be able to be with them as death would get there decades before she could.

It was awful. She couldn’t process just how awful it was right now. But it was over.

Except Eithne continued to speak.

…wings will be removed.

For all of Regan’s ultimately useless ruminating and brooding, all of her acclimation to every possibility she could consider, followed by her certainty that she saw her future laid out in front of her like a long carpet unfurling itself right into the lake, fit for drowning… she did not see this coming. Had she heard right?

Regan’s whole body was struck numb. She said nothing. She still did not look at Wynne – whose decision may not have mattered at all – or Siobhan, who was no doubt looking forward to this. Did Siobhan think Fate favorited her after today? That the wins would keep coming? If this was happening because Regan was a flight risk, she wanted Siobhan to fall with her. It was selfish. Petty. And she didn’t care. Siobhan had a knack for drawing that out of her with all of the ease of sucking out aqueous humor with a needle.

It wasn’t the first time such a sentence had been handed down, probably not even the second or third. There was that odd, old banshee, Blinne. She had come into the clinic to have Regan patch up her back after she got a knife stuck in it (a common accident), and the scarring that greeted Regan was both unrelated and extensive. She was not going to comment on it. She had learned by then when to hold her tongue (the first rule of which was no questions), but Blinne heard what went unsaid and didn’t seem to mind. Blinne had spent too long looking into death; she became confused, and in that confusion and blurring of lines, she killed her sister. There was no “by reason of insanity” here (75% of Saol Eile would be eligible) and though the others were capable of acknowledging an accident, the death of a banshee could never go unpunished. So Blinne had been forgiven, embraced back in full, but at a steep cost. And Regan never forgot those four ugly keloids on the woman’s back, where she said she used to have the most beautiful dragonfly wings.

Blinne had not once complained about the knife in her back. But before she left the clinic, she asked if Regan could do anything about her back pain. Regan remarked that it should cease in a couple of days now that the blade was gone. Blinne had not meant the knife.

Regan grew lightheaded, clutching the podium tightly, her nails denting the wood grain. How ironic that Cliodhna would have done everything in her power to protect her granddaughter from such a sentence. No– not protect Regan. Protect her wings.

Her wings. The ones that had taken years to adjust to. The ones Jade never got to see. The ones Van and the ham child thought were cool. They lacked bones, which was an insecurity she didn’t know she could have until recently, but Regan did not want to lose them. Regan hated them at first. Hated the change to her body, the feel of them against her skin like something cold and foreign crawling against her back, the wrongness, the constant reminder that she was something else now. She had tried to tear them from her back on more than one occasion, before she understood their musculature, how deeply they married her anatomy. But that hatred dulled – all of her had dulled – and it left room for a simple acceptance, which eventually grew into the expectation that they would be there. She didn’t like them, it would be a stretch to say that (dislike was still closer), but they were part of her. Other banshees thought they were attractive. In fact, it was the only part of her that had ever received a compliment from her grandmother’s mouth, even though she stated it as if it were a consolation prize.

Regan had almost missed the last part, she had been too stunned. She heard that Siobhan would be doing it. But Eithne said something else– that Siobhan knows about it. What did that mean? Had she done this to Blinne, too? Was that what her role had been here? Removing the wings – perhaps other pieces – of banshees? Eithne had been insistent. It was not a question, or even a request, but a demand. And she could demand it, because as long as that Boneio was dangled on the stick in front of Siobhan’s haggish face, Siobhan’s punishment would continue, too.

———

Tibia had seen Siobhan cleared. Had seen her returned with no more crimes hanging over her head. Tibia was the stronger bone. Wynne’s mouth had formed around those three syllables in the distant, dull hope that it would serve Regan well too. That this would be them being a merciful judge.

If only they had said fibula.

They hated the word if, now. If spoke of a different reality or one that could possibly come to be, but there was only this one. The one where Elias was lying by himself with wounds scattering his body. The one where Nora was in trouble. The one where Regan was condemned by their judgment. They hated the word when, too, as it was a promise of something coming. When I come back, they’d said. When we return. When — but there was no when like that any more. Regan had to stay here a hundred years and by the time her when would roll around, Wynne and Nora and Elias would be dead. It was only a matter of time for when they’d die.

They’d lived seventeen months past their time, anyway. Maybe it didn’t matter. But what did matter was Regan, in this place for a century more. What did matter was that Siobhan was going to take off her wings, which they had only started to see as part of Regan recently. Their legs were trembling visibly now and there was no voice in the back of their mind to tell them to remain calm. A wave of panic coursed through them. If only they’d gotten on the altar at home, and hadn’t condemned Iwan to die through their insolence. If only they’d said fibula.

Their voice mixed with their breath and when they opened their mouth to exhale the air they’d been holding a noise slipped out. An apology, a rejection, a plea. If they were the judge, could they not change the ruling? But the women in front of them were already responding, the crowds that mixed with faces from back home rejoicing. They echoed the word tibia, though that might be in their head, and there was no reality where their voice box was strong enough to overpower them. To correct. To say no. They had never been so brave to say no out loud, after all.

They clutched one of the pegs on the wheel and remained upright, not panicking fully as they felt Regan in their periphery. They didn’t know how to apologize. How to make themself clean of this sin, too. How to beg for forgiveness. They didn’t know how to breathe past this guilt and so they let their vision gloss over, taking hold of the last tactic they’d learned at home — to become separate of their body.

———

Good banshees showed no emotion. (What was that on Regan’s face? What was it on hers, tugging her lips down?) Good banshees respected their matriarchs. (Regan pushed hers, and where was Siobhan’s mother? Why didn’t she want to see her?) Good banshees followed Fate. (Where was the Fate in any of this?) Good banshees didn’t question. (Why? Why? Why?)

Siobhan had been here before: on this stage—”I was trying to help!”—with her back to the audience—“Please!”—asking why—“My wings?”. Hadn’t she just been thinking about the inevitable quality of stories? Her mother always said that life was cyclical. One banshee bled into the next; under Saol Eile, their lives dripped into roots, feeding the same earth. Were they flowers or weeds? Regan didn’t like her wings, Regan didn’t flaunt them as Siobhan once had. They were not her beauty, they were not her worth. It didn’t matter. No one here cared and wasn’t that the way of a good banshee?

(A young girl ran through the twisting streets of Saol Eile, red and black wings fluttering behind her. Skipping into the courthouse with her bundle of plastic knives—who had it been then? Siobhan couldn’t remember her name, only the shape of her hunched back as the knives bounced off her quivering wings. That girl would have ripped a million wings out for one hundred years more in her home. Where was she now?)

Good banshees were obedient.

———

It was something. At the very least, it was something. Some part of Max had been hoping to see Regan banished, but… no. Regan would have preferred that, wouldn’t she? She, with her precious humans an ocean away, would have found comfort in being rejected from a place that had only ever wanted what was best for her. This was better, Max decided. This was good. Regan would stay in a place where she did not want to be, and she would do so knowing that she was lesser than the other people there. Her wings would be torn from her back, and Max would flaunt hers, still intact, every time she saw her. And a hundred years from now, Max would be respected, the way she had earned, and Regan would be nothing. Regan would always be nothing. Regan deserved to be nothing.

Max threw another plastic knife towards Regan’s head, this time in celebration. The trial had gone well. The trial had gone as Fate had intended it to go. Now, there was little left to do but celebrate. Max glanced at Tina, silently asking her sister if she planned to attend the mushroom dance that was sure to follow. She already knew the answer; Tina would go where Max went. She always had.

———

Clare was ready to call the day a wash. 0 for 2. After all that, she would be forced to remain in close contact with the two worst banshees she’d ever laid eyes on. That was, until Eithne continued to speak.

Wings. The leanbh was sentenced to lose her wings. And even better: the wingless wonder would be the one to take them. A familiar smirk spread across Clare’s face.

She was going to enjoy watching them sink to the bottom of Farraige na Buanachta.

———

The irony of Regan’s punishment wasn’t lost on Metzli. They knew how she wasn’t particularly fond of her wings, but no one was fond of having things taken from them either. It was growing difficult to behave when things were going so horribly, when Regan looked full of every emotion on the spectrum, yet so numb at once. It was cruel, and it was wrong. All of it. The whole damned place operated on cruelty and pain and sacrifice. It felt too much like their vampire clan. It felt too much like torture. It felt too much. The gravity of it was made even more evident when Metzli looked at Siobhan, a woman who despised Regan. She looked no more satisfied than her neighbor. In fact, she looked pained, watching history repeat itself with her hand now on the knife. Their nails dug into their palm as their fist balled up tighter. Could they run? They had only one arm but they would make it work if given the chance.

———

It was so strange to see these banshees celebrating such a gruesome punishment of one of their own - without a word of explanation or defense as to the allegations against her. Anita knew that the purpose of their secret Irish home was to keep out humans, and part of her admitted that, but it seemed that in their isolation these banshees were not strengthened by their numbers but weakened by their singular thinking. Looking over at Metzli, it was obvious that they were feeling a similar level of discomfort. While neither of them were humans, Anita wasn’t particularly keen to stick around this place for much longer and see how they treated outsiders if this was how they treated their own kind.

———

Regan had plenty of questions she might have asked, if she wasn’t so busy swallowing down the inevitable like it was spoiled cream of bone soup. At what point had the wheel of Fate – the real one, if such a thing existed – truly stopped spinning (her birth? Her dad’s death? Meeting her grandmother? Returning here? Saving Elias? Dressing poorly for court?) Would her family learn to stop waiting and hoping that she would come back? Would Wynne, Elias, and the ham child be able to figure out a way out now? Could she keep the pubis (even if she was displeased with it at the moment)? Was human court also such a farce (one she may have unwittingly participated in)? And… and was there ever a way out of this? Ever? She had been so close. They had all been so… they had, right? Was that better, or worse? Did any of these questions matter?

No, not even a little. It was a familiar futility. One she had recently seen on Declan’s face. She’d told him something about making it worth it on the way there, filling your life with roadkill (or something). But Regan’s roadkill was not here. It was in Maine.

There was nothing else Eithne or the trial demanded of her. Regan turned her attention away, her vision fixed on the skeletons hanging on the walls, tracing the dark orbitals of their eyes with her own. That was what humans became here. The only reason Regan was not strung up there with them was the wings on her back. And they were going to tear those out, root and stem. Maybe next time it would be her up there. In one hundred years, they would see the same flaws and failures but not the wings to spare her.

Siobhan’s shuffling off the stage jostled Regan into moving. And– shuffling? Not skipping? Shouldn’t the wind be under her wings now that it would never be under Regan’s? But no. There was something wrong with Siobhan, too. She seemed shorter, smaller, and it wasn’t just because she was no longer held up by the sloped stage.

A knife was launched at Regan’s wings and she jolted at the contact, trying to flick the plastic away long after it had already fallen to the ground. The feel of it snaked up her spine, wrapping around each vertebrae. She couldn’t think about what a true blade would feel like in comparison (would it be one of her scalpels? A knife Siobhan already had in mind for the purpose? Now she was thinking about it). But she marched along like she was supposed to, because what else could she do? She would never beg again.

Eithne extended her hand, and Regan knew better than to think it was for her, some offer of comfort that Regan had only recently re-learned. No, Regan knew what this was about. She glared down at the pubis in her hands, hatred surging at the bone’s lack of intervention on her behalf, but… her gaze grew softer, the longer she looked. She couldn’t stay angry at a bone, even if it did betray her. So she was begrudging when she placed the pubic defender back into Eithne’s hands as she passed by.

Wynne was glued in place. Nothing held them there other than themself, but that was enough. Sometimes tar came from within. Metaphorically. Mostly, blood came from within, and Wynne looked ashen enough that they might not have had much of that circulating anyway. Wynne would be safe for now, as all attention would turn to Regan and Siobhan. Regan gave Wynne a final glance, trying to tell them to leave when they could, and that she was sorry. Maybe the ham child could drive them forward. She had a mission, after all – she needed to live to do what none of these banshees would do, to remember what they would not, even though they had many more years to hold one’s memories close.

Banshees swarmed around Regan and Siobhan as they stepped off the stage – wings of every shape and color, screams and yells of every pitch, eyes dark like sharks scouring the open ocean because they detected the first drops of blood. No one cared about Declan – she had been right about that – except for the ham child’s bear, covered in ash and smoke; but what Regan could see now, too, was that no one cared about Cliodhna, either. Everything the banshees cared about, everything they wanted without wanting, had already been delivered by the wheel. They would trail after the exile and the leanbh, following them to the clinic and gathering outside with their ears ready. They would think of the exile’s degraded sense of self-respect – if they remembered her at all – and her desperation, the way she was willing to call the last bits of soft tissue clinging to a bone an entire meal. They would think of the leanbh’s lack of appreciation for the gift she did not deserve, and how she dishonored her grandmother’s attempts to fix her by pushing her into the tar pit. They would think of both the exile and the leanbh, and they would hear their screams for miles, and they would call it Fate.

#writing #c siobhan #c wynne #c anita #c metzli #c nora #c max #c tina #c clare #c eithne

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efoyisk · 6 months

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❛ i fall in love just a little bit every day with someone new. ❜ ( anita needs to protect a witness and asks loki for a favor to keep him out of trouble while shes busy )

“truly?” loki has few complaints of boredom when it came to anita blake. or those in her vicinity. every person had some… curiosity of sorts. even those untouched by anything strange and occult. “a rather interesting life you must lead then,” hummed the trickster, swirling the cocktail to bring the aroma of the spirits and juices to his nose before taking one slow sip. the bar they had strolled into wasn’t the best which had graced his eyes, though it was… endearing. in the same manner as so many establishments built by midgardians. like headquarters of a certain agency. it truly was endearing, how humans believed a few thick walls could protect them from anything.

“whom have you found yourself in love with today then, caedmon byrone? you know, i met a byron once, a long long time ago. i rather fancied his company. unfortunately i forgot how little you all live, by the time i returned he was naught but bones.”

#` ‧ ° ❅⠀⠀◟ 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐈𝐋𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐓𝐎𝐍𝐆𝐔𝐄◝⠀⠀━⠀⠀ answered.#prettybrawler #icons????? dont know them #anyways #loki meeting random historical figures vol 2

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emptymanuscript · 23 days

Text

Take 3... or 30, or, you know, whatever...

Ok.

Time to buckle down. Unfuck all this. Winter is over. The Sun has returned. Life begins again. So I try again. Start over.

Picking a due date. June 1st. That's easy to remember. That's 53 days. That's time enough to do what NEEDS doing. Without too much time to sabotage myself.

I had a good conversation yesterday with Editor Prime ;) and she helped me coalesce my thinking much better.

I am, not just in specific, but in general as a plotted-course of work, trying to do too much. And in that issue I am trying to do two incompatible things simultaneously with Knights of Day, and therefore doing neither well enough to work.

I am trying to BOTH:

Turn the zero draft Knights of Day into a book series that is readable and comprehensible to a wider audience.

AND

Turn Knights of Day into a kind of magnum opus epic so the wider audience loves it the way we love it.

What she pointed out was that the entire reason to make Knights of Day in the first place is that it was epic. It just took its time instead of me trying to shoehorn EVERYTHING in right away and dial every element up to eleven. So I'm not gussying it up so much as building something different on its bones that is LIKE Knights of Day but actually something new.

That resonates with me. Yeah, that has been a repeated issue. Of me trying to make it "Good." And, of course, it doesn't really work. My drafts come out with great writing but the story is... off. Meanwhile Only A Mother comes out nearly ready to go on the first draft. So it's quite specifically something I'm doing wrong in Knights of Day.

It also triggers the thought that I actually don't like the "Good" stuff that people classify as "great epics" very much. As much of a Heresy as it is to say it, Lord of the Rings, while cool, is really not my favorite story. Even within its own universe, I like The Hobbit and The Silmarillion better. But honestly, I like "lighter" stuff. When I started Knights of Day, I was a Potter Head. My favorite series was Anita Blake: Vampire Hunter. My favorite series right now is the October Daye series. My delightful find last year was The Mother of Learning (Try Again). At this point most of my novel intake is "beach read" thrillers.

And what's the advice I give to other writers constantly? Hmmm?

Write what you read!

Which, for me, isn't grand tomes competing for epic trilogy space. It's small books you read in a few days and say, that was fun! about them. And now there's plenty of time to read umpteen more because the series I tend to love are huge. Not in terms of individual books but there are lots of the relatively small books. Churned out shockingly fast.

So... if someone else came to me with my problem, my advice would be: you're writing the wrong thing. Go write what you love, not what you think you should be writing. Because that's just shoulding on yourself. You'll be miserable AND you won't write it as well as someone who does love it will. It's a recipe for disaster.

So why don't I do that for myself?

Anxiety. Fear. Low Self Esteem. Codependency. All the usual stuff.

That's the other advantage of a short time scale like 53 days. If I screw it up and it doesn't work, that's not that much time to have wasted.

Keep it simple. Keep it short. And it might even take less time than that.

And if I screw it up again, I think I am officially giving myself permission to quit. Knights of Day has been going since the tail end of 2005. I don't actually want to spend my entire life on Knights of Day. If I can't make it work under the KISS method, then I think I am not capable of doing better than I already did, maybe someone else can do it, but I should let it go with intent and purpose and move on.

So, yeah, watch for the new tag, same as all the old tags: The Teddy Bear Hustle.

#The Teddy Bear Hustle #knights of day #writblr #watch me work #watch me not work #navel gazing

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honysuckl · 9 months

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Secret Stash | Anita & Honey

PARTNER : @gossipsnake TIMING : A week or so ago. LOCATION : Mansión Mexicana. SUMMARY : Honey finds Anita's secret in the greenhouse. WARNINGS : Unsanitary.

Honey had noticed it before, tucked away in the trees. Thought it could be kept from her, eh? While the flowers had yet to be seen, she knew they were there. Her loves only kept away by those sheets of glass and metal that made up the greenhouse. It was too large for personal use, but she was certain it was, considering the owner. Anita held an anger towards minimalism. What nested inside was guaranteed to be equally extravagant to its exterior. But instead of flowers, when she looked through the supposed glass, all she could see was darkness. Tragic. She knew the beauties inside were too lovely to be loved by one. She needed to see; perhaps share. It’s not like Anita would ever be able to tell, anyway.

Honey looked around again, expecting the woman to appear just from mere thought. But, no. Still nothing. That’s why she was here, after all, to keep Fluffy busy in absence of the house’s occupants. And she had kept the wee thing so busy he went right into a long nap. Taking advantage of her solitude (for once) she made quick with the locks. Locks! Plural! Her certainty grew stronger. One almost stopped her pursuit before it began, but her stubbornness eventually won out. All the locks clattered to the ground. The door opened.

Those flowers Honey had desired so desperately never met her comprehension. Maybe there were never flowers. She didn’t know, not then. Her attention was stolen by the pull. It gripped her soul and whispered a command, the one she was always happy to follow. Eat, eat, eat. Bite. Tear. The flesh was like butter from rot and decay. It tasted just as sweet. Her teeth scrapped bone before she even needed to chew. A tenderness that made her frenzy.

When moving to Wicked’s Rest, Anita was torn on which part of town she wanted to live in. Downtown screamed with the energy and excitement of all the bars, clubs, shops, and people. Harborside was drenched in wealth and opulence. Then there was Seven Peaks - a plot of land abutting The Pines that was fresh for her molding - sufficiently cut off from the main parts of town. The benefit of seclusion was privacy, of course. Neither Anita nor her roommate needed people regularly looking around and observing their day to day activities.

Plus, with so much land, Anita was able to construct her little haven - her greenhouse. Green wasn’t exactly the right word for it, however, as there was very minimal plant life inside. Instead the walls were filled with decay and thousands of insects who thrived in such a ghastly environment. She never got too into the forensic side of entomology but she did love seeing how small arthropods could break down bodies with methodical ease. That’s what existed beyond her greenhouse doors, which is why they were always kept locked tight.

While out on a hike earlier in the day she had come across a recently slain chipmunk. Not as large as the two human remains that were decomposing underneath the soil of her greenhouse, but worthy enough of bringing back home along with the few maggots that had already taken host. But as Anita approached, she saw that one of the doors was wide open. Her body tensed. Nobody else had a key. Nobody else needed to know what was inside. As she approached, she heard strange but not unfamiliar noises emanating from within. Someone … something… was feasting on her science projects.

Dropping the chipmunk carcass, Anita picked up a shovel kept on the outside of the greenhouse doors and quietly took a few steps inside - ready to go full lamia if she needed to. “Can I help you?” She asked, in a tone that made it quite clear she had no intention of doing any such thing.

Fear was laced into every fiber of muscle. Honey could feel it: the corpse’s last moment of dread before darkness. It always left the worst aftertaste, but the soul needed a proper place to rest. The flesh was turned to ribbon between the spaces of her teeth. She slurped them back into her mouth, along with the flies yet to breach. Her tongue was not so accurate. Bits tumbled along her chin, stroking down her neck until they met… Her clothes! With realization came a moment of clarity. This shit was always a fucking nightmare to remove. If she could remove it. At least the clothes themselves were obedient in that regard. Her cardigan was dropped onto the ground. Her shirt quickly followed, though it had certainly come to know the surrounding rot well. Oh, a problem to deal with in the future. The present demanded a return to that rot.

That reunion was short-lived. While a moment prior may have had Honey completely devoted to the flesh, that clarity kept her ears open to the world. Open to the approach of the stranger. She didn’t care who was on the other side of the wall. Her diet always caused others to run towards her to fight or away from her to warn. Neither would be appreciated. She removed her dirks from their sheathes. They gleamed in the dim light—a shine soon to be dulled under a layer of the stranger’s blood.

Well, until Honey realized it was no stranger at all. “...A-ida?” Her voice struggled past a chunk of muscle. It fell down her throat in one gulp. Right! Anita! The flesh had not only removed any thought of her clothes, but of any thought at all! Its spontaneous reveal had her acting the same. She then had the chance to consider: why the hell did Anita have this? But Honey was familiar with the arrangement, though her experiences were more simple. At times, she too would pile bodies in wait for hunger to return. She let out a laugh. “Oho! Is this, what, yer fridge a’ sorts?”

Carefully and cautiously, Anita evaluated the situation that was playing out in front of her. Honey, her roommate's hot friend, was standing before her with partially decomposed human remains on her face and no shirt on. It was a two-way street of suspicion. Metzli had made a vague passing reference to how much Honey was like them, and it appears that lacking a pulse was one of those things in common.

It didn’t take long for Anita to spot the blades held tightly in Honey’s hands. Her shovel wasn’t much of a match but if she needed to use her scales for protection she knew that she could. Her tone had been friendly, but her actions seemed defensive. “More of a scientific project than a fridge.” Even though her roommate trusted her, Antia didn’t know how this situation would play out for her. Would Honey tell people what she had going on back here? Would she try to blackmail Anita for her silence? “It’s forensic entomology. Seeing how various organic matter breaks down with the assistance of various insects. It’s for work.”

The explanation wasn’t false, but it did not provide a reason as to why Anita had human remains decomposing in there along with various woodland creatures. Having dead bodies wasn’t more suspicious than eating dead bodies, however. “I take it you were hungry?” It wasn’t an accusatory statement - more like Anita just trying to open the door to a conversation of further understanding. This could end peacefully and she would prefer it if it did.

“Och, aye, right.” The skepticism was clear in Honey’s voice. Not one meant to judge, but in the tone of whispers, like friends sharing a secret. She knew it was hard for many to reveal their true nature. A nature she knew well! Oh, how she knew the tantalization of a soul and the supple touch of decay. It was a wonder she did not return to it then, it was surely more interesting than any conversation could hope to be. That control of hers had been hard won after all this time mingling amongst humans. Anita seemed the same. Honey couldn’t even see that telling twitch and strain that always betrayed herself in her best of times. Huh. Curious. “Just a fridge for the wee crawlies.” She offered to play with the explanation. Perhaps there was a touch of truth in it: there were certainly many critters about. A sharing soul!

Honey could see Anita’s eyes go down. There were many possibilities, such as her breasts or the gore cupping each. It was those she had assumed at first, but the angle of the pupils wasn’t right. No. It was her dirks that had stolen the show. She chuckled. “No made up a’ good bites meself. Too strong a’ taste for most.” Her flesh was only delectable for a select few—was Anita one of those few? Well, she could not recall stories of those sorts having the capacity to look so human. Well, not that her lack of memory was any damning evidence. Best to keep those blades of hers close. “But aye. Had a want for nibbles.” Sweet nibbles for Anita and the critters she so loved. It was then the reality of her encroachment fully settled. “Ach, right. Yer nibbles.” She hissed, “O mo chreach.” Flowers were one thing, but humans weren’t the easiest to store. At least, not to the point of delicious decay. No wonder Anita wielded that shovel. She herself would have done the same and worse! There was a moment of awkward grumbling, but with a nod, she settled into resolve. “I will go ‘n replace the sweet nibbles I took. ”

Had nearly anyone else broken into the greenhouse, Anita would likely view it as a necessity to add them to the very shallow graves they had discovered. A human certainly would not be able to be trusted with the information. Anyone else would have to be on a case-by-case basis. Unfortunately for the both of them, Anita didn’t really know Honey very well - or at all, really. Despite that, she felt that she had enough data points to evaluate this situation and the most likely outcomes.

“I’m not the one looking for a snack.” Antia replied, firmly but not aggressively. She’d never eaten anyone undead before, didn’t sound very appetizing in all honesty. She liked her meals fresh and warm. From what she knew about their shared world, Honey was likely a zombie. Anita couldn’t imagine any other species tearing through the decaying human flesh with such precision - at least not while still looking human. The question became whether or not Honey knew that Anita was lamia. The behavior she had uncovered wasn’t inherent to Anita’s species - just inherent to Anita.

The offer was both unexpected and kind - so much so that it caused Anita to loosen up her grip on the shovel she had still been holding. “Oh. Well, that one was near the end stages of my observations anyway.” The idea of someone else contributing to her collection made her uneasy. Anita was used to taking such diligent precautions to avoid any unwanted attention. It wasn’t that she doubted that Honey couldn’t be discrete but she just couldn’t take the chance. The last thing she needed was someone knocking on her door because a missing hiker was traced back to her greenhouse somehow. “No need to replace it. Thank you though, the offer is appreciated.”

Aye, keep your sweet secrets, Anita. It was smart to hide those sorts away, and Honey had no right prying down those walls… Despite her want. Who are you, Anita? A question that grew at the refusal of the trade. “Eh?” Who would refuse a free morsel? Especially a meal so hard to secure without the risk of becoming a meal to the state! Did Honey seem inadequately suited for such a task? Or worse, was it the end goal of sustenance not to Anita’s liking? Observations. Project. Honey suspected all were a well-rehearsed distraction from a guarded truth. But, for a moment, she saw the ‘distraction’ as true, and in that moment, she came to a disappointing conclusion. “Ach, no, dinnae say yer a clarty headed human who plays at man-hunter. Oh, they never do the shite right.”

A grievance more born from past experience than present evidence. Anita seemed far more interesting than to be revealed for one of those. Honey sternly shook her head that was paired with a quick muttering of no’s. No, these bodies were here for… something. “I see, I see, aye. Well! If not that, then…” Despite the refusal, it was rude to leave without an attempt at an offer. And she did have parts to spare. “Will trade in this!” Her blade finally found a proper target. It sliced through her own index finger. Her remaining fingers quickly caught it before it fell to the ground. Only a delay, for she nestled it into the soil, joining its brethren of death. She hoped the offering would suffice. With that, she stood and brought along her clothes. The cardigan rested on one shoulder, while her shirt the other. But she could not so freely walk out of the lion’s den, not yet. She studied Anita for a moment before twitching her blade, instructing Anita to the side. “If is trappin’ the rest a’ me ye seek, go ahead with yer best shot. But if no, then move yerself. I got a bath waitin’.”

“Ay! Don’t even say such a thing,” Anita waved her arms in slight disgust and then pretended to spit on the ground at the implication that she might be a human. She knew that when she was shifted into her human form that she had all the appearances of humanity. That always just irked her, however. She longed for a space where she could live her days in her true form. But to do so would put her at heightened risk which would necessitate heightened isolation, which she was unwilling to do.

Not because she had any qualms about blood or severed limbs or ligaments, but when Honey sliced through her index finger, Anita gasped. Why would someone do such a thing? With no hesitation and a face that was not painted with regret thereafter. That mixed with the eating rotting flesh led her mind down a very particular path.

As much disdain as she had for another telling her to move aside within her own greenhouse, Anita did not put up a fight. She took a step to the side, but stuck out her hand in front of Honey before she let her pass by. “This time, I’m stepping aside. If you break in again, or enter without my permission… this is not a courtesy I will extend twice.”

Honey chuckled at the disgust. While she did not share in the ill will—humans provided her such precious sustenance after all—she could recognize it. Oh, who are you, Anita? A curiosity they shared, for she could also recognize that look. While Honey refused to dawdle on the potential possibilities Anita was humoring, she delighted in becoming a spectacle. If only Anita would share in any telling nature. But Anita’s generosity ended at a tight eyes that loomed with a threat. Yet Honey’s dirk settled at her hip. Still grasped, of course. She knew she was encroaching on another’s territory, and when she stayed with Anita’s gaze, she could see it was the territory of a predator. Honey’s smile did not falter, but it did settle. It was no longer fueled by amusement, but by recognition. She wanted to make that threat in Anita’s eyes a reality. To make the two of them a mirror in ferocity.

Honey would be blessed another time. For the moment, she had overstayed the welcome she was never given. “Oh, I no doubt that. Ye must ken all the lovely ways to deal with the ill-footers.” She began her leave, despite her thoughts not fully done. “Gie a ring if those ‘observations’ get a bit much for you.” She snapped her teeth, offering them up for their services for such an event. Well, ‘event.’ Her use of observations had been in jest, for it must surely be a distraction. Right? Yet as soon as the word left her mouth, that strange feeling in her gut returned and festered. Anita did not seem so human, but Honey wondered if her accusation was truly off base. To kill without a thought for sustenance… The smile on her face finally fell into nothingness. “Best to ring quick. Is damn cruel to keep the souls waitin’ there so long.” She doubted Anita would heed her warning. No, if it were true, this needed her return. To right this wrong; to continue her feast. But first, those threatening eyes needed to leave her. Another time, then. The bath called to her.

The way Honey’s smile fell made Anita feel a bit uneasy, as did her word choice. The way she emphasized ‘observations’, the way she called the rotting bodies in the ground ‘souls.’ Could she really be the type of being who happily consumed human flesh while also holding the species in high regard? Their shared community, the non-human community, seemed to be fairly split on how to treat and deal with the rest of the population.

“Don’t sit up waiting for any call. I’ve managed this greenhouse all by myself for many years, hasn’t gotten to be too much for me yet - don’t expect it will any time soon.” Anita couldn’t figure out what Honey’s intentions were and she wasn’t quite sure that she really wanted to find out. Nor did she have any intention of altering her experiments at their request. The “souls” were long gone, and leaving them in the ground for Anita’s observations was not cruel - it was science.

“I’m serious, don’t come in here again.” She’d have to have a conversation with Metzli about certain spaces being off limits to houseguests. Anita didn’t want to have to kill one of her roommates' friends simply because they didn’t know how to mind their own business. But if it had to be done… she was prepared to do it.

#secret stash #thread #thread : anita #ft. anita n.#unsanitary tw

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